Latrodectus Mactans
by Brandysaur
Summary: Clint Barton hasn't heard a word from Natasha Romanoff in three weeks. Not a single word. A bottle of brandy and half a bottle of pills later, he struggles to come to terms with his fate and abandonment. One shot.


"The _Latrodectus mactans_, or Southern black widow, is the most recognizable of the black widow family. This spider, native to North America, is highly venomous; however, it is not typically fatal to humans. Less than 1% of bite victims will die from the bite of the _latrodectus mactans_." The announcer's voice spanned the length of a haunting clip on the television. A dark, lanky spider crept forward on her crystalline web and snatched a wiry moth from the air. It flapped helplessly, dust from the scales on its wings ascending into a cruel haze as the spider retreated to the center with her prize. "This fact, however, makes the widow no less fearsome. Insects much larger than herself, including males of her own species, and, on occasion, small mammals, all find themselves helpless to the paralysis and pain that her bite inflicts. These animals are immobilized, with digestive enzymes breaking down the flesh. Often, the prey feels every moment of the torture."

Clint Barton sunk into the matted couch behind him, pressed his fingertips into his eyes, rolling them in semicircular motions, trying to ease the pain. _Torture?_ He thought. _That is nothing. _He sighed and rolled his head back. He ached. Burning sensations deep within his stomach. Chest pain. The quivering of muscles in his face and arms. These things plagued him and tore at his sanity. He was amidst a self-induced nightmare.

"The widow is not without predators of her own. Especially after mating, when laying her hundreds of eggs, she is at high risk. She is the favorite meal of the praying mantis, and, if the nests are in the open, the prey of birds. Sparrows, crows and blackbirds, even hawks have been known to devour her and scavenge from the nest."

Clint stared away from the program and towards his leather boots, pain searing from behind his eyes into the very fabric of his mind. His boots were plastered with thick mud, crazen lined, dry, and filthy. He shook, but managed to reach to the end table and fumble for the bottle of brandy he had drained the night before, knocking over a half-empty bottle of prescription sleeping pills in the process. The sour caramel taste was still on his tongue. He stood, slowly, and with effort he almost couldn't muster. He wandered to the sink, adjacent from the ratty motel bed, and filled the bottle with water from the tap. He hadn't thought to bring dishes. Who needs dishes when they want to die?

The announcer's voice droned in the background. The sunlight from the television flashed, and a red winged blackbird swooped in and plucked the widow from her web. Clint, however, was no longer listening.

The sound of the water faucet twisting off was piercing. Clint, hungover and heavily drugged, felt a twinge of pain race from his temple to his neck; a bolt of sickening lightning that left him feeling cracked. He stumbled backward, and fell to the couch. The cushions were stained with what looked like tea, but Clint knew that image was transparent wishful thinking. He rolled his head to the side and brought the neck of the bottle to his mouth, pressing his lips to the glass spiral that once captured the tin tasting lid. He swallowed, once, twice, three times, pausing the breathe at the apex of his nausea.

He turned his head and retched for the twelfth time in less than twenty four hours. His entire body was failing, but at least now the stink of half-digested sleeping pills weren't accompanying the stink of stomach acid.

"Fuck," he whispered to no one. The announcer began again, and Clint slammed the remote into the floor and ground it into the cigarette-burned carpet. The television blacked out abruptly, with a single white light at the center that faded slowly into nothingness. Clint lay here, in silence, for nearly half an hour, with nothing but the loud click of clock hands moving on the wall adjacent to him. Tick. Tick. Tick. _I've still got 40 left. I could always try again._

The motel was grubby and probably the least sanitary place he had willingly gone. _Even by the standards in Budapest this is bad, _Clint thought to himself. Even that, the mere process of thought, signals from his brain that activity was occurring, sent pain searing through his head. "Fuck!"

The rationale was this: the motel was cheap. Clint had thirty five dollars in his pocket, enough to pay a week's rent at the _Motel Amore. _He was in a drunken stupor when he had paid the desk worker, and now, he was stuck. If it worked, it'd take a few days for anyone to realize he was here. Which was good. No one would save him. It'd be final.

_It's not like I can abandon her, _he mused. _ That's a good word for it._ He felt through his pockets and found his phone. His hands were shaking from the residual mix of medication and alcohol. No missed calls. No text messages. Nothing. He flicked the touchscreen and brought up his call log. 5 Hours ago. Call sent to Natasha Romanoff. 6 Hours ago. Call sent to Natasha Romanoff. 6 and a half hours ago. 4 text messages to Natasha Romanoff. 8 Hours ago. Call sent to Natasha Romanoff.

He had heard nothing from her in three weeks. Not a single word. Clint pulled his arms around his shoulders and shuddered. The tears threatened to start again. _Should have saved the money for booze…_

"Clint!" Natasha waved from across the street. She looked each direction, her crimson spirals flaring out like a fire around her face. She ran to him in long, quick strides. Like an antelope. _Or rather, _Clint mused, _she moves like a spider. A predator. It's breathtaking._

"Hey, Tasha." _I love you._

"What, one meal of Shawarma and you're gone? The night is still young." She pursed her lips and lay a hand on her hip. _God, no, Natasha. My _life_ is still young. I'll never leave you. _Clint adjusted the quiver on his back and collapsed his bow. He smiled. Natasha's facial expression did not change from the stoic half frown she possessed.

"Gotcha. What'd you have in mind?" He offered his bare arm to her. She slipped her around it, locking them together in a way Clint knew he would not forget. His heart swelled, though the pressure threatened to let lose a torrent of speeches and words and badly written poems he had prepared for a moment alone with her, just like this. She was warm. He wanted to taste her. _Quiet,_ he told himself. He felt himself growl.

Natasha Romanoff glanced at the Hawk as they walked down the avenue. His neck was cut and bleeding from the battle, just hours before. None of them had a chance to clean up, but Clint emanated energy. She wanted to touch him and wipe away the blood: Anything to repay him for what he had done for her. Clint was oblivious to her stare.

A quarter of an hour passed the two by as they walked through the empty streets, desolate from the dust and wreckage from the battle. "So I'm thinking we should go back to my place and watch some kung fu movies. I need a break from all of this. You know, take some time off. Tony's right. Let's just not come in tomorrow. Or the next day." _Or ever._

"Clint," Natasha responded after a moment of silence. "You don't have a place." The corners of her mouth not quite pulled into a grin. _You are so unbelievably beautiful,_ Clint almost whispered.

"Okay. Fair point." He said instead. He paused and chuckled, wrinkled his nose, and proceeded to pluck Natasha from the sidewalk. "Looks like we'll have to get a place of our own."

Natasha looked less than amused and stared Clint Barton in the face.

"Funny." She said flatly. Clint grinned. He did not set the squirming Black Widow back down. _You feel perfect here, Natasha._

"Tasha, I'm serious. This is over now. We should, you know… Get a place." She stared at him.

"Together."

Natasha still said nothing.

"And you know… be a family?" _Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck WHY, Barton? Why?_

A billion things were racing through her mind. She wanted this. But she didn't. She was free and unbound, but… She was bound. By him. He let her live. A thousand times he had saved her life, a thousand times she had dreamed of kissing him over and over and whispering thank-yous into his ears and falling asleep in his arms for the rest of her life.

And then, she always remembered that this is a petty, stupid dream. Assassins and spies and child soldiers like her don't get happy endings. They never do. They never will.

"Clint, why are you doing this?" She noticed they had still been moving. They were nearing a park, overrun with greenery, blossoming lilies, and overhanging willow trees, far from the hell they had been enveloped in just hours before.

Clint set Natasha down. "Nat." He took her hands and looked deep into her eyes. She looked terrified. It struck Barton- this was the first time he had ever seen her scared. She stood at the mercy of death and ruin and right now, when faced by Clint's assurance and emotion, she was terrified. "I love you." His eyes were glassy. This was it. The defining moment. Clint and Natasha. He had everything planned. Hell, he had a place lined up. All she had to do was come with him.

Natasha bit her lip. She dropped his hands. "I always have," Barton went on. "SHEILD knew me from a long time. You brought me here. It's because of you I'm still a good guy." _What the fuck am I doing? _Clint thought to himself. _Stop, look what you're fucking doing to her. Just fucking give up. She'll never want this with you. She can't. She won't._

Natasha stood. She mouthed something Clint couldn't quite make out- _Intimately._

"Well?" Clint asked. _Please, Natasha. Say something. For me._ Natasha worked her tongue slowly around her lips and pressed them together. She took a step and sat back down, set her hands on his shoulders, and slowly brought her lips to his. Clint felt like he was dying and being reborn in a flash of flame. Like a phoenix. Natasha pulled his bottom lip into her mouth and bit down gently, sucking and pulling and tracing the lines of his mouth with her own. A bite. A loving bite from the Black Widow herself.

In that moment, Clint saw his life flash before his eyes. A wedding. Dancing, drunk Tony and Cap, Banner trying to contain his joy. They were Clint's family, and now… Natasha would be. His life partner. His lover. His wife. A pregnancy. Or two. Or three. Fatherhood. Unconditional love. And a house! A beautiful, wonderful, spacious house- they would retire from this murderous work together and take each day, hand in hand, letting go of the pain and isolation and desperation their entire lives had buried within their hearts.

She pulled away.

"So this is what you want. Us," she whispered, in an eerily even tone.

"More than anything you could possible imagine." Clint had tears in his eyes.

Natasha smiled. "Let's go."

Clint couldn't stop the flood of tears this time. He pulled the smoky pillow from the floor and held it against his chest. He choked on the smell of the motel room, the suffocating air, the asphyxiation of phlegm and tears and salt and alcohol.

"I FUCKING HATE YOU."

_I fucking hate you,_ he said to himself.

_Clint Barton, I fucking hate you._

He picked up the phone and dialed, once again.

"Hi, you've reached the voicemail of Natasha Romanoff. I'm busy." Beep.

"Tasha, I need you. Where the fuck are you? I'm sorry. I'll take it all back. I'm sorry I scared you. I'm sorry it was too much. I'm sorry about the ring, you just have to understand-"

The voicemail cut him off.

Clint felt as if his heart was literally being ripped apart. He was torn in a thousand tiny pieces.

He pulled the gold band out of his pocket. Twenty four karat gold. Center, princess cut ruby. Two triangular alexandrites that changed with the light: a rosy, pale pink to a stunning amethyst.

_Red and purple, Tasha. For us. Remember? You didn't have to go. You didn't have to run…I can't live without you anymore._

He held the ring between his hands and sobbed, choking on his compromised respiratory system. The depressants were lingering in his system.

_I wonder if Banner was this low when he put a gun in his mouth?_

_But I still have the pills._

_You know, I guess I'm in that one percent. One percent human fatality._


End file.
